


We Are Fools To Make War

by dornfelder



Series: Brothers in Arms [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, episode coda, reaction fic, season two finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 22:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10397379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: They are brothers of steel and blood and the salt spray of the ocean - that, and the fucking freedom they've claimed inside this realm of darkness, the one they've made for themselves. Fuck England, fuck everyone who thinks they'll ever come to heel again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _We are fools to make war_
> 
> _On our brothers in arms_
> 
> **_Dire Straits, Brothers in Arms, 1985_**

The guns still fire at intervals. Smoke rises from Charles Town, mingling with the dark sky at nightfall. Not even half a day has passed, and the city lies in ruins.

Billy and Mr Scott are telling him about the fight with Vane's men, the forestay, Silver and the loss of his leg. Flint hears himself responding, finds himself giving orders. 

All the while, a part of him still rages, not satisfied by the slaughter. A part of him wants to go back and finish it, slay every single one of them, of the crowd that had gathered to see him hang – the jeering men, the wide-eyed women. He understands it now, the defiance of a man sentenced to death, words dripping venom - a small measure of retribution, if there's any to be had.

_Everyone is a monster to someone. Since you are so convinced that I am yours, I will be it._

He turns away from Scott and Billy, the sight of Charles Town burning. It's not enough to calm him down. He is restless, unsettled. No way will he be able to sleep right now, caught in a state beyond exhaustion. He'll have to wait it out – wait for the quiet moments before dawn, when everything seems peaceful on the verge of a new day. 

When he enters the captain's quarters, he's unsurprised to find Vane there, standing at the window and drinking rum straight from the bottle. 

Vane turns around. His entire body is a line of tension, as if he too is still caught in the blood lust of battle - the half triumphant, half feral state of victory, when the fight hasn't gone out of a man and he can do many things, commit all manners of atrocities and vile deeds.

Flint nods in acknowledgment, then walks over to him. Vane offers him the bottle without being asked. Flint takes it, and their fingers touch for a brief second before Vane lets go.

"Your man, with the leg, will he live?"

"Too early to tell," Flint says, recounting what Billy told him. "Surgeon's watching over him." 

"If you bosun hadn't done it for me, I'd have killed Jenks for ordering it," Vane says.

Flint shrugs. Hands the bottle back to Vane, and again their fingers meet. 

Vane is still in his stained shirt, with dirt in his hair and dried blood on his face. Not a civilized man by any means, no lord with a pallid face under a powdered wig. 

There's nothing tame about him, nothing timid. 

Vane tilts his head back and takes a long gulp. Flint watches him swallow, a bit of rum escaping his mouth to trickle down his chin. A stray drop falls onto the hollow of his throat, glistening in the candlelight.

Their eyes meet over the rim of the bottle as Vane holds it out to him. This time, when Flint reaches for it, Vane doesn't let go, and their fingers keep touching. 

Flint finds himself not wanting to pull away. 

"The way you're staring at me right now, you're looking for a fight," Vane says in a low voice. "Or something else."

Blood rushes in Fint's ears. He pulls his hand back, grips the bottle too tightly. His free hand clenches into a fist, whether to keep himself from striking Vane or reaching for him, he doesn't know. 

"Are you offering?" he asks in a voice he barely recognizes as his own.

"Fight between you and me? We're beyond that," Vane says. "Last time made it pretty clear that neither of us can get the upper hand. Way you're standing there, running on nothing but rage and power of will, you'd probably lose. You have the fury, but not the strength right now. Guess I'd have to kill you to get you to stop, though, and then your men would kill _me_. So … Am I offering? A fight? No. A _fuck_ , on the other hand …" He tilts his head to the side, a curious almost-smile on his face. "Seems like a good way to burn some of that fuel. Neither of us dies. With a bit of luck, we might get some sleep." 

"Are you fucking serious," Flint says. 

Vane's glittering gaze is enough of an answer, even before Vane raises his eyebrows, again with that detached amusement. "I heard you. When I was trying to sneak up on you in the tavern. Heard her yell at you. About this guy whom you loved. Who wanted to pardon us all." 

Flint goes still without wanting to, without meaning to. 

Vane looks at him and slowly lifts his hands. "I don't give a fuck. I don't want to hear about it. But just in case you'd like to try and tell me you don't fuck men, don't bother, I know that's not true."

"I didn't know _you_ did," Flint says. He has to swallow, has to tell his hands not to shake.

"We're not exactly friends, you and I. Lots of things you don't know about me. But if you want to fuck me, why not. Or –" 

"Or?" 

"Or I can fuck _you_. Because you look like a man who needs not to be in charge for a goddamn minute. If you want me to throw you to the floor and fuck you until you pass out, I can do that."

"If you believe I'd let you do that – let you hold that over my head –"

"Don't be a fucking idiot," Vane says. "I made you an offer. Take it or leave it. Up to you."

"What would you get out of it?" Flint says through gritted teeth. 

"A fuck," Vane says. "Your cock in my ass. My cock in yours. I'm … amenable. Or we can do both, so we're even."

Vane keeps looking at him and Flint holds his gaze, lifts the bottle and takes another drink. Without breaking eye contact, he puts the bottle down.

Vane smiles. He closes the distance between them, puts his hands on Flint's shoulders and kisses him. 

Flint tastes the rum on Vane's lips, the slick heat of his mouth, the blood and salt on his skin, blending with ashes and gun powder and the vicious, animal rage that lives inside them both. 

This. 

_Yes._

Vane breaks the kiss to lick at his jaw, bite at his throat, coming close to drawing blood. Flint permits it, thrusts against him through layers of leather and linen. He doesn't know when he got hard, only that it happened, and that there's no use in pretending he doesn't want what Vane is offering. They both know better.

"Get us something slick," Vane tells him, and starts pulling off his shirt.

Flint looks around wildly, unable to think of anything until his eyes fall on the oil lamp hanging from the ceiling. He almost breaks it in his haste to pull it out of its holder.

He thrusts the earthen lamp at Vane and pulls off his own coat. 

Vane watches him undress. He's already naked, completely without shame, cock flushed and hard between his legs. "I don't care who goes first," he says, voice low with a promise that sends a shiver down Flint's spine. "If you want me on my hands and knees, you just have to say so."

"No," Flint says, no longer in doubt. He bares his teeth at Vane. " _Fuck me._ " 

Vane throws his head back, and a harsh laugh escapes him. Flint looks away, focuses on practicalities, positions himself on the floor, with nothing but their clothes as a barrier between them and he bare wood. Vane kneels down behind him, bends over him so that his long hair trails over Flint's back. His breath is hot and moist against Flint's ear. "I'm going to fuck you, and then you're going to do the same to me." 

A tremble runs through Flint, excitement, triumph, sheer adrenaline. "Stop talking. Do it."

Vane doesn't waste a lot of time on preparation. Oil, roughly applied by callused fingers, then a cock that breaches him. Flint braces himself against the floor, tries to breathe through it. It's been too long since he's had anyone inside him, and Vane feels huge. He moves slowly at first, and even though Flint's body is grateful for the time to adjust, Flint soon loses his patience. 

"Fuck me," he says, and Vane starts thrusting into him with more force, grunting and swearing. His fingers dig into Flint's hips, hard enough to leave bruises. Flint takes it, relishes it, the way Vane scalds him from the inside and spears him open. 

He might be bleeding after this.

No one else has ever been this rough with him. No one has ever fucked him this way, as if his body is hostile territory, yearning to be conquered. He wouldn't have permitted it, wouldn't have wanted it. Now he yields, lets Vane stake his claim. A vicious hold on his hips, powerful thrusts that force grunts and groans from his throat. The sheer brutality of a fuck that cares nothing for pleasure, just for the taking. 

They are one and the same now, creatures born from fire and rage. Monsters. 

Who but another monster would take a monster to bed? 

The men can hear them, surely, if they decide to listen. Flint doesn't care, and something tells him he'll never care again. Let them hear his moans, the slapping of flesh on flesh, the labored breaths as Vane picks up his pace. The animality of it: let them bear witness and know that he is no longer afraid of the darkest part of himself, that he welcomes it.

 _Know no shame,_ Thomas has told him, so long ago. There's a cruel irony in the fact that he only now allows himself to embrace it. 

Vane thrusts into him one more time. A shudder runs through him and he stills with a ragged breath. Flint closes his eyes, imagining he can feel it, the hot pulses inside of him that mark him as surely as a brand. 

When Vane pulls out, something wet and sticky trickles down Flint's thighs. He doesn't care to look what it is, oil or semen or even blood, and instead he raises to his knees and turns around to reach for Vane and pull him close.

Kisses, slick with saliva, savage bites that threaten to break skin. Flint finds his lips moving toward the gash on Vane's cheek. He licks at the dried blood, fills his mouth with the taste of iron, of battle and dirt - familiar as breathing. They are one and the same, born of the same need, the same sorrow. They've fought each other and today they've fought together, they've fucked each other over and now they're just plain fucking each other. There's a sense of brotherhood in it, one that Flint has rejected before, deeming himself a better man.

He isn't. It's time to admit it. 

They are brothers of steel and blood and the salt spray of the ocean - that, and the fucking freedom they've claimed inside this realm of darkness, the one they've made for themselves. Fuck England, fuck everyone who thinks they'll ever come to heel again. 

Vane groans and reclaims his mouth. Fint surrenders to teeth and an eager tongue and the shared taste of blood. He ends the kiss, breathing hard, and pulls, pushes, until Vane goes where he tells him to and lies down on his back for him. Flint barely just remembers to use some of the oil to ease the way before he pushes in. Vane lifts his hips to take him in, and Flint starts fucking him with the same abandon, the same brutal thrusts. Vane curses through clenched teeth, hisses, but he doesn't tell Flint to stop.

Flint doesn't know how long it lasts. No way to measure time, just _this_ , the unrelenting rhythm of his thrusts as he drives himself deep, again and again, until he spends in a rush that isn't joy, nor pleasure, nothing but grim, defiant satisfaction. It runs through him like liquid fire and leaves him burned out and hollow. 

He collapses on top of Vane, puts his teeth against his jugular, feels Vane swallow under his lips. 

It would be so easy to tear him apart. Part of Flint wants to. Instead, he scrapes Vane's skin with his teeth, ever so slightly. Vane shudders and arches underneath him, lets out a tiny, involuntary gasp. 

Vane winds a hand through Flint's hair and pulls his head where he wants it, kisses him lazily. He bears Flint's weight without complain, and they both relearn how to breathe. 

Flint finally rolls off him. They lie in the dark, side by side. 

Vane takes a deep breath, releases it. Another minute passes before he opens his mouth. 

"Whatever happened there, to your woman, I don't really want to know. Can't say I ever spared her a lot of thought. But from what I saw, she was fierce, in her own way. I'm sorry about her, for what it's worth."

_For what it's worth._

Not a whole lot. 

Not nothing either. 

"Eleanor betrayed me," Vane continues in a rough whisper, pained. "I betrayed her in turn. You and your Mrs Barlow, you weren't like that. She was … loyal. Brave."

 _She was._ The true extent of Miranda's loyalty, her bravery, Vane will never know. Flint closes his eyes against the stinging, the tears he can't allow himself to shed. 

If he lets himself fall apart now, he's going to end with a pistol aimed at his head.

"I won't apologize for going after your ship," Vane says after a long moment. "For it to be betrayal, there needs to be trust. I never trusted you, you never trusted me. But in future … if we clash, maybe we should find a way to resolve it. Be more … reasonable than before."

The room seems to be spinning around him. Flint opens his eyes again, stares at the ceiling, the dancing shadows from the few candles still burning. 

" _Reasonable_ ," he repeats. "Didn't think you knew what that word meant."

"I can be _very_ reasonable." Vane's voice has taken on yet another note, dark and sweet as molasses. "We just struck a bargain, like the reasonable men we are, didn't we?"

Flint lets out a sharp, unexpected bark of laughter. " _Jesus Christ_." 

"I'd wager that future negotiations will be ... full of possibilities." 

"We're not going to do this again."

"No," Vane says. "We're not. But from now on, if we have a problem, we solve it on our own. No quartermasters. No Eleanor Guthrie. No dagger in the dark. Just you and I. And whatever weapons we agree on. Whether that's swords, pistols, fists, or cocks, I don't care. Whatever you deal out, I can take. If you have a problem with me, you better ask yourself whether you're willing to let it escalate."

There's a grim sort of satisfaction in making a deal with the devil when you're a devil yourself. "As long as you don't start a fight just because you're feeling an _itch_  …"

"Don't worry. You're not that good of a fuck."

Two ways this could go, and only one that doesn't end with the two of them starting another sort of rivalry, at the end of which lies madness and destruction. 

Even in his state, Flint is sane enough to see that. 

"Glad we're in agreement," he says, and then there's nothing but silence, the softly swaying ship, waves lapping at the hull. The gun fire has ceased, the men will be preparing to set sail. He'll have to get up and dress, give orders, plot a course.

Flint closes his eyes. Just for a moment, he lets himself be at peace.


End file.
